Now I am on my knees,
my skirts lifted and I am starring at the foggy sea-air,
and now I am this shiver of salty water,
this tide-pool, this handful of asters dropped on the sand.
Another month’s blood past—
I look for my face along the waterline—jasper, agate, a peculiar
round umber.
Now I am this black stone, carved, curved, smooth as a bowl,
hollow as a hip-bone, now
this torn and bright blossom of yellowed kelp,
this briny-sea-rose. I was almost a vessel.
I swirl, I swerve—oceanic blue into the watercolor of ember-smoked sky.
And now I am lifted, as though I could fly
into the seam where fire meets sea, the sun rapturing her way
into gravity. I was almost a vessel. I am almost
an offering. Until the sealark rims the shore
crying—here is a parachute, come down,
calling—no baby here, come down.
In my hands these wet stones—
this heart-ache ship, this titanic—a spiny pottery
half floating, half sunken, bone-pretty—
still smoldering.
